


The Funeral

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Clothed Sex, Desk Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Rough Sex, Violent Thoughts, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sympathy card was written in her handwriting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Funeral

The card wasn't signed, of course, but it was in her writing. It listed the penthouse suite in the hotel he was staying in and a simple instruction, _wear black_. The front informed him it was sorry for his loss, with the classic, ever elegant silver lettering and watercolour lilies. His thoughts turned to the wife he'd lost and to the husband she'd claimed had passed out drunk in the bathtub and drowned peacefully, after he'd called him a distraction. He didn't dare think of Jessica, asleep in her bed. A part of him knew if she intended to threaten him, she'd just say it outright. She had said it before, in Rome, with blood still dripping down the window.

He tied the bowtie tight around his neck, wondering if it was to become a noose or a garrotte later. She'd avoid getting blood on his crisp white shirt. In the lift, he patted down himself down as though making sure he had everything he needed. He was in a way, feeling the outline of the gun he was carrying. She'd have to get the better of him first. He would kill her. If he had to, he would kill her.

He found her door ajar but he made sure it was locked behind him. She was standing by a great ornate desk, a tasteful black dress cut just above the knee and a fascinator that covered half her face behind a netted veil. She handed him a scotch, neat, warm from her hand.

“Letan is dead,” she said softly, her voice muffled by the glass hovering at her lips, waiting to be drunk from. “I wanted to bury her in style.”

“If Letan's dead,” he started, inhaling the scent of the scotch to be sure. “Then with whom am I drinking?”

“I don't know yet, the papers haven't been drawn up. For now, I'm nobody.”

She took a sip, as close to proving it wasn't poisoned as he could hope for and he did the same, raising his glass as he swallowed. “Cheers, nobody.”

“Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass to his, the light refracting where they met.

She turned away, putting her glass down on the buffed wood. It would leave a watermark. “What do normal people do at funerals?”

“Normal people don't usually orchestrate and attend their own,” Philip reasoned, staring at her back, trying to work out what game she was playing now.

Her dress had a crease in it, just under the small of her back before it flared out over her rear. She'd smooth it down if she could see it herself. He reached out and did it for her, attempting to be unmoved by the intimacy of the gesture. He didn't do intimacy well with her, it overwhelmed him. She could do it too easily, he often thought.

“They eat free food,” he answered eventually, indulging her. “They drink until they can't be miserable and then they fuck until they don't feel alone. It's human nature in a cocktail shaker.”

She glanced back at him, reminding him they are above all that. His mind helpfully swapped out _above_ for _better than_ \- they are better than that - to make himself feel better.

“Is that what we should do? Eat, drink and be merry? Seems somewhat jovial for death.”

“You're not actually dead though,” he reminded her, as if she might have forgotten.

“True,” she admitted, finally looking at him over her shoulder.

His hand was still on the small of her back as though it had taken up residence there without his say so. Like nothing had ever gone so terribly wrong between them. He meant to move it but it only slipped higher up her dress, until he could feel the lines of her bra though the thin material.

He swallowed. He couldn’t forget even if he wanted to, she would always be her. What was easy to forget though was himself. He could lose himself in one of her speeches about their good intentions and how needs must when the devil drives. If she said it was all alright again now, he’d believe her. He almost longed for her to say it.

“It’s not going to be alright, is it?” he said instead, making her turn, a questioning look on her face.

“Oh, Philip, you always were so concerned with the state of things to come,” Letan said sadly. “Of course it won’t be alright, you made sure of that.”

He wanted to contradict her, pass the blame but she shook her head. Laying a hand on his lips, she leaned towards him. “And I could honestly care less if it’s going to be _alright_.”

He kissed her, he couldn't help it, even if he tried. Her lips were soft, gentle, like she often pretended to be. But her kiss was hard, brutal, like she truly was. And like everything good she touched, it was soon over. And like everything bad that happened, it was all his fault. He pulled away.

An apology sat on the tip of his tongue, though for kissing her or pushing her away, he did not know. But the words never left his mouth. Instead she took them, chasing them with her own tongue, demanding more from him than something easily written off as a simple mistake. It was much harder to excuse her kissing him. She had always held that line firm but now she let it drop. A thousand thoughts crossed his mind, like the rush hour traffic. But the one that won out was Letan was dead and he might as well be, he very well might be soon. So this room, he realised, was to be purgatory for them both. A limbo where nothing was real, nothing really mattered.

He pushed her back against the desk, hard, making it screech on the floor. There was a bed nearby, he knew. He should fuck her on a bed, he fleetingly thought, like a lady of class. But she reached up, pulled the careful folds of his bow tie loose and for a moment, it was just as possible she really would strangle him with it, like a true murderess.

“This is what we should have done than night,” she whispered against his lips, pulling on the tie, on the buttons of his shirt. “Rather than worrying how the world would end. We should have fucked like animals but we do so like pretending we’re higher up the food chain.”

He nearly laughed, imagining a world in which he could have ended up so involved with her in any other way. Instead, he lifted her onto the desk, making it scream again. “Or we should have jumped.”

She smiled, nipping at his bottom lip, kicking off her heels. “Or that.”

Reaching under her dress, he found her bare, her cunt already wet underneath his fingertips as he pushed them inside her. She gasped, arms around his neck, rising off the tabletop and pushing forward into his hand. 

He could make her fall apart like this, he thought idly. It wouldn’t be giving into her, it wouldn’t be weak. But he couldn’t help being weak in her shadow, led by her hands. She reached for his trousers, fingers seeking out his cock behind the thin fabric. When she had what she wanted, like always, she took it for her own, guiding it inside her. Unable to turn away, he threw himself at her mercy, getting drawn in to her and trying to break free, only to be pulled back again. 

Closing his eyes, he can pretend they are still living that night. That it never ended. That she was still leaning over that banister, only this time, with his hands holding her back, holding her steady, holding her as he fucked her. Like they might fall any minute.

Her fingers pushed back the collar of his shirt, nails scratching down his back, drawing blood as he lifted her clear off the desk, leaving her nothing to cling onto but him. Nothing but air. She could have jumped. He could have kicked the table. Her legs were tight around his hips, he would never shake her off even if he wanted to. Never. Not unless he jumped too.

Her fingers slipped down his back, over his shoulders and his sides as he lifted her, hands causing even more wrinkles in her dress as he pushed it up, pushed her up. He opened his eyes when her wandering touch found the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. He’d quite forgotten it was there, the unspoken alternative.

Her brow creased in a frown and for a second, he thought she might pull the gun on him but when her mouth opened, she didn’t say a word, a silent cry escaping on the air as she breathed out then sharply in. Her cunt mirrored her body, clinging to him as if he was all that was keeping her alive, despite the threat of the firearm.

He could feel her inhale, exhale, as he came, as though every wave was drawn out of him as easily for her as breathing. Setting her back on the desk, he rested his head against hers for a second, denying every moment that had ever passed between them in favour of pretending she was just a casual fuck. It was easier to hang onto the fleeting warmth that way.

“Where’s the vaccine?” she asked in the softest whisper, almost like he’d imagined it.

Detaching himself from her, he shook his head, smiling at how much easier she’d made it to walk away one more time. “Rest in peace, Letan.”

**Author's Note:**

> As of 01/01/18, I'm opting to disable comments. [More information here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13077201).


End file.
